by John Grisham
“Have you thought about talking to Bruce?”
“No. Why would I?”
“He knows the business and the art from every angle. He reads everything, knows hundreds of writers and agents and editors, and they often come to him for his insights, not necessarily his advice. He won’t give any, unless he’s asked. He likes you and he admires your work and he would probably say something helpful.”
Mercer shrugged as if the idea might have merit. The front door opened and Noelle said, “Excuse me, but I may have a customer.” She left the table and disappeared. For a few moments, Mercer sipped her tea and felt like a fraud. She wasn’t there to shop for furniture or chat about writing or pretend to be another lonely, troubled author trying to make friends. No, she was there snooping for any scrap of information she could hand over to Elaine, who might one day use it against Noelle and Bruce. A sharp pain hit deep in her bowels as a wave of nausea swept over her. She endured it, waited for it to pass, then stood and steadied herself. She walked to the front of the store, where Noelle was helping a customer who appeared to be serious about a dresser.
“I need to be going,” Mercer said.
“Of course,” Noelle said almost in a whisper. “Bruce and I would love to have you over for dinner soon.”
“How lovely. I’m free for the rest of the summer.”
“I’ll call.”
2.
Later in the afternoon, Noelle was arranging a collection of small ceramic urns when a well-dressed couple in their forties entered the store. Her first glance told her they were far more affluent than the average tourists who dropped in from the street, browsed long enough to understand the prices, then hustled away empty-handed.
They introduced themselves as Luke and Carol Massey from Houston and said they were staying at the Ritz for a few days, their first visit to the island. They had heard about the store, had even seen its website, and were immediately attracted to a tile-top dining table that was a hundred years old and, at that moment, the most expensive item in the store. Luke asked for a tape measure and Noelle handed one over. They measured the table from all directions, mumbling between themselves that it would be perfect in the guesthouse dining room. Luke rolled up his sleeves and Carol asked if they could take photos. Of course, Noelle said. They measured two dressers and two large armoires, and in doing so asked intelligent questions about the wood, the finishes, the histories. They were building a new home in Houston and wanted it to look and feel like a Provençal farmhouse, one they had vacationed in the year before near the village of Roussillon in the Vaucluse. The longer they stayed the more enamored they became with virtually everything Noelle had to offer. She took them upstairs to the pricier furniture and their interest intensified. After an hour in the store, and at almost 5:00 p.m., Noelle opened a bottle of champagne and poured three glasses. While Luke was measuring a leather chaise and Carol was snapping photos, Noelle excused herself to go downstairs and check on the front. When two stragglers left, she locked the door and returned to the wealthy Texans.
They gathered around an old comptoir and got down to business. Luke asked questions about shipping and storage. Their new home was at least six months away from completion and they were using a warehouse to gather furniture and furnishings. Noelle assured them that she shipped all over the country and that was no problem. Carol clicked off the items she wanted to purchase at that moment, one of which was the writer’s table. Noelle said no, she was holding it for someone else, but she could easily find another one during her upcoming trip to Provence. They walked downstairs to her office, where she poured more champagne and began working on a bill. The total was $160,000, a figure that didn’t faze them. Haggling over prices was part of the business, but the Masseys had no interest in it. Luke laid down a black credit card as if dealing in pocket change, and Carol signed the order.
At the front door, they hugged her like old friends and said they might be back tomorrow. When they were gone, Noelle tried to remember a sale of that magnitude. She could not.
At 10:05 the following morning, Luke and Carol breezed back into the store with bright smiles and high energy. They said they’d spent half the night looking at photos and mentally moving pieces around their unfinished home, and, well, they wanted more. Their architect had e-mailed them scaled drawings of the first two levels and they had sketched in designs and placements of where they wanted Noelle’s furniture. She couldn’t help but notice that the house covered nineteen thousand square feet. They went to her second floor, spent the entire morning measuring beds, tables, chairs, and armoires, and in doing so wiped out her inventory. The bill for the second day was over $300,000, and Luke again whipped out the black credit card.
For lunch, Noelle locked the store and took them to a popular bistro around the corner. While they ate, her lawyer checked the validity of the credit card and learned that the Masseys could buy whatever they wanted. He also dug into their backgrounds but found little. Why did it matter? If the black card worked, who cared where the money came from?
Over lunch, Carol asked Noelle, “When will you get more inventory?”
Noelle laughed and said, “Well, obviously sooner rather than later. I was planning a trip to France in early August, but now that I have nothing to sell I need to move it up.”
Carol glanced at Luke, who seemed a bit sheepish for some reason. He said, “Just curious. We are wondering if perhaps we could meet you over there and shop together.”
Carol added, “We love Provence, and it would be a blast hunting for antiques with someone like you.”
Luke said, “We don’t have kids and love to travel, especially to France, and we’re really into these antiques. We’re even looking for a new designer who could help with the flooring and wallpaper.”
Noelle said, “Well, I happen to know everyone in the business. When would you want to go?”
The Masseys looked at each other as if trying to recall their busy schedules. Luke said, “We’re in London on business in two weeks. We could meet you in Provence after that.”
“Is that too soon?” Carol asked.
Noelle thought for a second and said, “I can make it work. I go several times a year and even have an apartment in Avignon.”
“Awesome,” Carol said with great excitement. “It will be an adventure. I can just see our home filled with stuff that we find ourselves in Provence.”
Luke raised a wineglass and said, “Here’s to antiques hunting in the South of France.”
3.
Two days later, the first truck was loaded with most of Noelle’s inventory. It left Camino Island bound for a warehouse in Houston where a large space was waiting. A thousand square feet had been leased to Luke and Carol Massey. The bill, though, would eventually cross the desk of Elaine Shelby.
In several months, when the project was over, for better or for worse, the lovely antiques would slowly reenter the market.
4.
At dusk, Mercer went to the beach, turned south, and drifted along at the water’s edge. The Nelsons, from four doors to the south, stopped her for a quick chat as their mutt sniffed her ankles. They were in their seventies and held hands as they walked the beach. They were friendly to the point of being nosy and had already extracted the reason for Mercer’s little vacation. “Happy writing,” Mr. Nelson said as they left her. A few minutes later she was stopped by Mrs. Alderman, from eight doors to the north, who was walking her twin poodles and always seemed desperate for human contact. Mercer wasn’t desperate, but she was enjoying the neighborhood.
Almost to the pier, she left the water and approached a boardwalk. Elaine was back in town and wanted to meet. She was waiting on the small patio outside the triplex she had leased for the operation. Mercer had been there once before and seen no one but Elaine. If there were others involved in the surveillance, or if someone was shadowing her, she was unaware of it. Elaine had been vague when quizzed about it.
They stepped into the kitchen and Elaine asked, �
��Would you like something to drink?”
“Water is fine.”
“Have you had dinner?”
“No.”
“Well, we can order a pizza, sushi, or Chinese takeout. What will it be?”
“I’m really not hungry.”
“Neither am I. Let’s sit here,” Elaine said, pointing to a small breakfast table between the kitchen and the den. She opened the fridge and removed two bottles of water. Mercer took a seat and looked around. “Are you staying here?” she asked.
“Yes, for two nights.” Elaine sat across from her.
“Alone?”
“Yes. There’s no one else on the island as of today. We come and go.”
Mercer almost asked about the “we” part but let it pass.
Elaine said, “So, you’ve seen Noelle’s store.” Mercer nodded. Her nightly report by e-mail was deliberately vague.
“Tell me about it. Describe the layout.”
Mercer walked her through each display room, upstairs and down, adding as much detail as possible. Elaine listened carefully but did not take notes. It was obvious she knew a lot about the store.
“Is there a basement?” Elaine asked.
“Yes, she mentioned it in passing, said she had a workshop down there, but had no interest in showing it to me.”
“She’s holding the writer’s table. We tried to buy it but she said it’s not for sale. At some point soon you’re going to buy it, but perhaps you’ll want it painted. Perhaps she’ll do this in the basement, and maybe you’ll want to take a look to see a sample of the new color. We need to have a look in the basement because it adjoins the bookstore’s.”
“Who tried to buy it?”
“We. Us. The good guys, Mercer. You’re not alone.”
“Why is this not comforting?”
“You’re not being watched. We come and go, as I’ve said.”
“Okay. Suppose I get into her basement. Then what?”
“Look. Observe. Take it all in. If we’re lucky there might be a door that leads to the bookstore.”
“I doubt that.”
“I doubt it too but we need to know. Is the wall concrete, brick, wood? We might need to go through it one day, or night. What about the store’s video surveillance?”
“Two cameras, one aimed at the front door, the other in the back above the small kitchen area. There could be more but I didn’t see any. None on the second floor. I’m sure you already know this.”
“Yes, but in this business we triple check everything and we never stop gathering information. How is the front door locked?”
“Dead bolt, with a key. Nothing fancy.”
“Did you see a rear door?”
“No, but I didn’t go all the way to the rear. I think there are some more rooms back there.”
“To the east is the bookstore. To the west is a realtor’s office. Any door connecting to it?”
“None that I saw.”
“Nice work. You’ve been here three weeks, Mercer, and you’ve done a superb job of blending in and not arousing suspicion. You’ve met the right people, seen all you can see, and we’re very pleased. But we need to make something happen.”
“I’m sure you have something up your sleeve.”
“Indeed.” Elaine walked to the sofa, picked up three books, and placed them in the center of the table. “Here’s the story. Tessa left Memphis in 1985 and moved here for good. As we know, her will left her estate to her three children in equal shares. It had a provision leaving you twenty thousand dollars in cash for college. She had six other grandchildren—Connie, Holstead’s bunch out in California, and Jane’s only child, Sarah. You were the only one who got a specific bequest.”
“I was the only one she really loved.”
“Right, so our new story goes something like this. After she died, you and Connie were going through her personal items, the small stuff that’s not mentioned in the will, and the two of you decided to divide it. A few items of clothing, some old photos, maybe some inexpensive art, whatever. Create the fiction you want. In the deal, you received a box of books, most of them kids’ books Tessa had bought for you over the years. At the bottom, though, were these three books, all first editions from the public library in Memphis, all checked out by Tessa in 1985. When Tessa moved to the beach, she either intentionally or inadvertently brought these three books with her. Thirty years later, you have them.”
“Are they valuable?”
“Yes and no. Look at the one on top.”
Mercer picked it up. The Convict by James Lee Burke. It appeared to be in perfect condition, its dust jacket pristine and encased in Mylar. Mercer opened it, turned to the copyright page, and saw the words “First Edition.”
Elaine said, “As you probably know, this was a collection of Burke’s short stories that got a lot of attention in 1985. The critics loved it and it sold well.”
“What’s it worth?”
“We bought this one last week for five thousand dollars. The first printing was small and there aren’t many of these left in circulation. On the back of the dust jacket you’ll see a bar code. That’s what the Memphis library was using in 1985, so the book is virtually unmarked. Of course we added the bar code and I’m sure Cable will know someone in the business who can remove it. It’s not that difficult.”
“Five thousand dollars,” Mercer repeated, as if she were holding a gold brick.
“Yes, and from a reputable dealer. The plan is for you to mention this book to Cable. Tell him its story but don’t show him the book, at least initially. You’re not sure what to do. The book was obviously taken by Tessa and she had no legitimate claim to it. Then it was taken by you, outside her estate, and so you have no legitimate claim to it. The book belongs to the library in Memphis, but after thirty years who really cares? And, of course you need the money.”
“We’re making Tessa a thief?”
“It’s fiction, Mercer.”
“I’m not sure I want to defame my deceased grandmother.”
“ ‘Deceased’ is the key word. Tessa’s been dead for eleven years and she didn’t steal anything. The fiction you tell Cable will be heard by him only.”
Mercer slowly picked up the second book. Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy, published by Random House, 1985, a first edition with a shiny dust jacket. “What’s this one worth?” she asked.
“We paid four thousand a couple of weeks ago.”
Mercer laid it down and picked up the third one. Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry, published by Simon & Schuster, also in 1985. The book had obviously been passed around, though the dust jacket was pristine.
“That one is a little different,” Elaine said. “Simon & Schuster was anticipating big numbers and the first printing was around forty thousand, so there are a lot of first editions in the hands of collectors, which, obviously, suppresses the value. We paid five hundred bucks, then put a new dust jacket on it to double the value.”
“The dust jacket is a forgery?” Mercer asked.
“Yes, happens all the time in the trade, at least among the crooks. A perfectly forged dust jacket can greatly increase the value. We found a good forger.”
Mercer once again caught the “we” angle and marveled at the size of the operation. She laid the book down and gulped some water.
“Is the plan for me to eventually sell these to Cable? If so, I don’t like the idea of selling fake stuff.”
“The plan, Mercer, is for you to use these books as a means to get closer to Cable. Start off by merely talking about the books. You’re not sure what to do with them. It’s morally wrong to sell them because they really don’t belong to you. Eventually, show him one or two and see how he reacts. Maybe he’ll show you his collection in the basement or the vault or whatever he has down there. Who knows where the conversation will go. What we need, Mercer, is for you to get inside his world. He might jump at the chance to buy The Convict or Blood Meridian, or he may already have them in his collection. If we ha
ve him pegged correctly, he’ll probably like the idea that the books are not exactly legitimate and want to buy them. Let’s see how honest he is with you. We know what the books are worth. Will he give you a lowball offer? Who knows? The money is not important. The crucial aspect here is to become a small part in his shady business.”
“I’m not sure I like this.”
“It’s harmless, Mercer, and it’s all fiction. These books were legitimately purchased by us. If he buys them, we get our money back. If he resells them, he gets his money back. There’s nothing wrong or unethical about the plan.”
“Okay, but I’m not sure I can play along and be believable.”
“Come on, Mercer. You live in a world of fiction. Create some more.”
“The fiction is not going too well these days.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Mercer shrugged and took a sip of water. She stared at the books as her mind raced through various scenarios. Finally, she asked, “What can go wrong?”
“I suppose Cable could contact the library in Memphis and snoop around, but it’s a big system and he’d get nowhere. Thirty years have gone by and everything has changed. They lose about a thousand